


The creed of the seamstress is that you're pretty in pieces

by thought



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon, Spirit Albarn's terrible taste
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-13 22:31:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16480979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thought/pseuds/thought
Summary: "If we don't talk about the embarrassing shit you did as a student we'll have to talk about how the rest of our class is dead," Azusa says, shrugging. "And we're all already drunk enough without bringing out the guilt vodka."





	The creed of the seamstress is that you're pretty in pieces

**Author's Note:**

> A series of mostly unrelated scenes set in a nebulous post-anime world in which Spirit and Stein are beginning to get their shit together.  
> Originally written for various Fictober dialogue prompts.

"I thought you'd forgotten," Spirit says. "No, wait. I'd hoped you had forgotten."

"I remember everything that can be used to humiliate you," Azusa says, arching an eyebrow.

"Will you be writing his biography, then?" Sid asks.

"Betrayal," Spirit says, flopping back in his chair dramatically. "From one I trusted, one I held so dear."

Naigus snorts. "How many times did you make him go over the plan for Germany last week before you'd sign off on it? Also, we all know you were the one who replaced the erasable markers in his classroom with sharpies."

"Ok, I am not going to apologize for doing my literal job, but thanks for that attempted guilt trip."

Stein nudges him with an elbow. "And the sharpies?"

Spirit glances away. Whistles innocently.

"Have you ever tried to wash sharpie off a whiteboard?" Stein asks.

"I... can't say I have."

"It's not easy," Sid volunteers. "But all the kids got a laugh out of it. I didn't really mind."

"I would mind, for the record," Stein says, pointedly.

"Yeah," says Sid, amused. "It's a good thing you decided to pick on me. I'm pretty sure you'd be sleeping on the couch for a week if you started screwing with Stein's classroom."

"More like sleeping in restraints on an operating table," Spirit mutters, because hey, look, everybody, he can joke about that now! Not a panic attack in sight!

Stein smirks, which really doesn't help Spirit's... anything.

"I'm sure he wouldn't do that now," Sid says.

"He would," Marie offers, shrugging. And then, at a look from Stein, "I know what you're like. I've never judged you for it, but I'm not in denial either."

"I'm not in denial," Spirit says indignantly.

Marie blinks. "Oh! No, Spirit, that wasn't supposed to be a jab at you. Or anyone."

Marie's too nice. Always has been, but when he was seeing her every day in class or Death Weapon training he knew how to dull his own metaphorical edges to interact with her without being an asshole. Eleven years and a continent apart, he's out of practice.

"Anyway," he says, probably too loudly. "We've gotten off topic. I think we were talking about how Azusa has been stalking me for her giant file of incriminating and embarrassing information, and how we really don't need to bring up old stories from our very youthful, carefree, innocent days."

"If we don't talk about the embarrassing shit you did as a student we'll have to talk about how the rest of our class is dead," Azusa says, shrugging. "And we're all already drunk enough without bringing out the guilt vodka."

Spirit leans his head against Stein's shoulder. "Yeah," he says. "I mean. Fair."

"There's a reason we never organized a ten-year reunion," Sid says.

"Yeah, there was," Naigus says, waving her glass lazily in her meister's direction. "Our surviving classmates are all kind of insufferable. Also, you thought the catering was overpriced."

"She didn't mean that the way it sounded," Sid says.

"Yes she did," Naigus cuts him off. "The four of you were and are completely unaware of how to have a normal social interaction and Sid's a cheap bastard."

"I could be turning over a new leaf," Sid objects. "I've got a new lease on un-death. Un-life? Well, a first lease, I suppose, though it's still technically new."

"This couldn't be a class reunion, anyway," Marie says.

"True," Azusa smirks, jerking her head at Spirit. "Your ex-wife would have to be here to complete the set."

"Yes, thank you," Spirit says, irritable so he doesn't start crying. "It never gets old, having everybody rub that in my face practically weekly."

"I'm sure she'd be here if she could," Marie says, gently. Azusa chokes on her drink and coughs her way through a fit of laughter. Marie frowns over at her disapprovingly. "You don't know what's going on with her, don't make judgements without all the facts."

"I thought you hated her?" Azusa asks.

"Oh I do," Marie shrugs. "But you're still being unfair."

"Am I the only one who didn't find anything wrong with her?" Sid asks, a little helplessly.

"No," says Spirit, and he really is going to cry now, fuck.

"You also don't see anything wrong with him," Azusa retorts, gesturing her glass towards Stein, liquid sloshing almost over the edge. "You're just a nice guy, Sid."

"Thanks?" says Sid, a little suspicious. Azusa reaches over and squeezes his arm.

"I mean it."

Naigus smiles at Azusa over Sid's head which he's ducked in pleased embarrassment.

Stein taps Spirit's forehead with a finger. "Stop thinking about her. You're getting teary."

"I'm great at social situations," Spirit says to Naigus, bouncing backward through the conversation. Stein leans their shoulders together, and Spirit slides down a little on the couch so he can better fit himself up close against Stein side.

"Professional situations don't count," Naigus says immediately. "I never said you weren't good at your job."

"Technically you did," Stein murmurs, but she ignores him.

"That's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about that time you threw up because your daughter asked to spend time with you. Or how you cry every time you see a lost pet advertisement in the newspaper. Or how you've literally described how you would torture to death anybody who tried to really hurt Maka or Stein."

"I'm flattered," Stein says dryly.

"Shut the fuck up," Spirit tells him, affectionately. "It's not my fault I'm just more in touch with my emotions than you are, Azusa. Most people call that healthy."

"Sure," she says. "Yeah. *You're* healthy. We'll go with that."

****

 

"Can you feel this?" Stein asks, jabbing a finger against Spirit's wound.

"Nope," Spirit says, watching the creeping red of his blood soaking through the hastily improvised bandage on his side.

"Hmm," Stein says.

"Sorry," Spirit says, a little meanly. "Possibly it's the shock." He does not say 'possibly it's that I'm pretty sure you were hallucinating when you gave me the morphine and it's a fucking miracle I'm still conscious', but Stein winces like he did.

If it were up to spirit he'd still be in weapon form, lying down somewhere dark and warm and quiet where he didn't have to do anything but sleep for the next twelve hours. It is, of course, not up to him because what the fuck is bodily autonomy when your meister is Franken Stein? Spirit's gotten pretty used to a certain lack of agency around his physical self as a general rule. At least he knows Stein not only has his best interests at heart but also understands what those best interests are.

If nothing else, Stein needs a functioning weapon. He's not going to do anything permanently damaging to spirit. And-- well. Spirit has been trusting his entire self to this man's hands since he was 13 years old. Kind of hard to stop when he's literally grown up with that unshakable trust. Besides, Stein's been trusting his mind to spirit for just as long, even if he won't admit it.

"I'm going to take the bandages off now," Stein says. The hand he rests on spirit's shoulder is reassuring, bracing. The slight upturn to his lips when spirit flinches in anticipation isn't deliberately unkind, it isn't deliberately anything. Stein wants most things from him, but never his fear. They could never have rebuilt their relationship if he'd wanted that.

There's a heavy layer of ash all over Stein's clothes and hair, and when he bends his head to focus Spirit reaches out to brush the resulting cloud off his forehead and away from his eyes. Stein leans his forehead into spirit's palm for a few seconds, then pulls back, taking the bandage with him. Spirit breathes through the distant pain of dried blood and dirt being torn away from the open wound, and has to look away from the mess that is pretty much everything between his hip and ribcage.

"You know," he says, carefully. "I'm actually gonna pass out now. Don't forget to ice your ankles before you get distracted."

Stein is staring intently at his wound, at the place where spirit's pretty sure he saw a bit of bone peaking out. He's not willing to look back to confirm.

Stein supports spirit with the hand still on his shoulder as he leans back. The lights overhead spin sickeningly, like that point when the drinks stop making him happier and start making him depressed instead.

"Fuuuuck," spirit mutters through clenched teeth, trying not to vomit. "Oh wow, adrenaline crash. God, this whole thing was a bad idea."

Stein returns his earlier favour, brushing hair off of spirit's forehead and pressing a cool palm against his suddenly too-hot skin. "Go to sleep, Spirit. I've got you."

****

On stage, the trumpet player sets aside his instrument for another round of painfully off-key slurring into the microphone, and Spirit laughs with a hand over his mouth, tipping his body in against stein's shoulder in the booth. He smells like Stein's cigarettes and hotel shampoo, and his hair, when it brushes over Stein's neck, is feather soft. Spirit's on his third drink, something dark and expensive and complex that remind Stein sharply of the two year difference in their ages, even if by 30 that sort of thing shouldn't matter.

Stein takes another small sip of his long-cold alcoholic coffee and doesn't nudge Spirit to straighten up even though he probably should. He hadn't wanted to come out, would have been entirely content remaining in the hotel room until they had to leave for the airport, but Spirit had dragged him out of the hotel with the combined power of his damned pleading eyes and the muscle he's apparently built up in Lord Death's service.

"We're not spending Friday night in New York in our hotel room," he'd said, in that gently chiding tone that means Stein has missed some social cue or convention.

Spirit had charmed the concierge of the hotel into providing recommendations less likely to be crowded with tourists, and it hadn't taken more than twenty minutes of walking, shoulders bumping together on the busy sidewalks, before they'd arrived at an innocuously forgettable pub boasting live jazz performances every night. The inside of the bar is a little dingy, clean but worn, and in his well-cut suit and easy grace Spirit stands out just enough to draw brief flickers of attention from the other patrons. Stein watches the elegant curve of his wrist as he lifts his glass, the dip of lashes when he blinks, and has to forcibly remind himself that this is his weapon, it's Spirit, who had dropped an entire cup of coffee on himself just before they'd gotten on the flight to New York, who had cried after a thirty second phone call with Maka, who looks at Stein like he has the power to build or destroy universes and Spirit's never quite certain which he's going to choose.

Spirit rests a hand on Stein's knee under the table, warm through his jeans. "You were right, this is terrible," he says, jerking his head toward the band on-stage.

"So glad you've finally come to your senses," Stein says.

Spirit rests his head against Stein's shoulder. "That's ok. It's worth a little audio torture to get to spend time with you like this. I spent a lot of time in places like this on my own. I want to replace those memories."

Spirit tosses back the last of his drink, and his hand creeps higher on Stein's thigh. Stein catches the hand and wraps his fingers around Spirit's deceptively narrow wrist.

"And here I thought the entire point of the alcohol was to ensure you don't remember."

Spirit twists around so he's facing Stein, turning the meister's face towards him with a hand on Stein's jaw. "No. Not anymore. Not here. I'm still going to drink, but I'll never forget. Any of it."

He leans in, presses his forehead against Stein's. Stein touches the curve of Spirit's neck, soft skin and five o'clock shadow, and thinks about creating and destroying and the benefit of experience. Spirit won't forget anything. Neither will Stein. He's got a second chance. Try again. Fail better.

 

****

 

Stein is asleep. Stein is asleep on the sofa, and it's a miracle the massive hardcover book that has fallen across his face hasn't broken his nose. Spirit can count the times he's seen his meister really, truly asleep on one hand, even after knowing him for almost two decades.

He's intending to creep past, grab some coffee to clear away the cobwebs of his not-quite hangover before mandatory staff brunch and its accompanying mimosas. He can move soundlessly when he needs to, and he has a vested interest in letting Stein get all the rest he can possibly. If nothing else, now might be a great time to gather some ammunition to fire back when Stein goes off on one of those slightly charming, extremely creepy descriptions of exactly how Spirit looks when he sleeps. Unfortunately, Stein is intimately familiar with spirit's physical presence and soul wavelength, and has never grown out of his childhood hyper-vigilance, so Spirit's not really surprised to find himself caught by the wrist as soon as he comes close enough to the sofa.

"What time is it?" Stein asks, voice raspy from dehydration or too many cigarettes or both.

"Ten," Spirit says.

"Sorry," Stein says. "I don't know what happened."

"no worries, we've got time," Spirit says, deciding he's probably not getting his wrist back any time soon and settling himself to sit on the floor, shoulder leaning up against the sofa edge, close enough to brush against the stiff fabric of Stein's labcoat and smell the stale smoke and coffee clinging to him. His hand is cold, and Spirit ducks his head so he can press his forehead against the skin of Stein's forearm where his sleeve has been rucked up in his sleep.

"Were you drinking?" Stein asks, reaching over with his unoccupied hand to comb through Spirit's hair, doubtlessly messing it out of the style he'd spent ten minutes in front of the mirror trying to create.

"Not alone," spirit says into the cushion. "And not a lot. What were you working on?"

"Coding," stein says, the way other people might say 'cleaning toilets'. "Someone tried to hack the school's servers on Friday, which is a sentence I could have gone my entire life without speaking."

"I know," Spirit says. "Lord Death still isn't back, so everyone's been coming to me with every little crisis and concern and future concern and could have been a concern."

"Aww," Stein says, expressionlessly. Spirit shoves his face against Stein's arm like a cat demanding attention, and Stein tugs his hair sharply.

"I'm sorry I woke you up," Spirit says.

"I would have had to get up soon anyway," Stein points out.

"not for another twenty minutes."

Stein sighs, then let's go of spirit's wrist and tugs more gently on his hair. "Come here, then," he says, and Spirit can read the indulgence under the monotone. Stein rolls onto his side, his back up against the back of the sofa, one arm stretched out in invitation. There's not really enough room, but Spirit climbs up beside him anyway, throwing a leg over Stein's and resting his head on the other man's arm. Stein drapes his other arm over Spirit's hips, hand resting possessively at the small of his back. Spirit tucks his face into the space between Stein's chin and shoulder. Stein reopens the book he'd fallen asleep with, propping it precariously on spirit's back, the arm under Spirit's head curling up to balance it. The corner of the hardcover digs painfully into the soft spot under his left shoulderblade.

"Thirty minutes," Stein says.

Spirit makes a displeased noise into his neck. "Twenty. You're not driving."

"Honestly, spirit, you're ridiculous about this."

"I," spirit says, darkly, "have a daughter to live for. And a very important job. Maybe even a meister, depending how I'm feeling that day."

"Charming," Stein says, dryly.

"I will be driving," spirit says. "Like, for at least the next thirty years."

Stein is quiet for a minute, and Spirit thinks he's been distracted by his book, but he finally speaks. "I'm holding you to that. Thirty years from today, we'll be revisiting this overly-paranoid rule of yours."

"I'll mark it on my calendar," spirit says. Stein digs his fingers into Spirit's back hard enough to bruise.


End file.
